TINA IN THE CLOSET
© November 17, 1936
by
Ignazio Di Palermo and Tina Carobbi
The purpose of this brief experiment was to test the application to human sexual response of the James-Lange Theory, specifically and primarily inquiring into the involuntary visceral and/or skeletal response of a ten-year-old male subject in close proximity with and to a nine-year-old female subject in a controlled space. Toward that end, a voluntarily induced, emotion-provoking situation was created spontaneously. A secondary objective was to have been an exploration of the responses of the nine-year-old female subject. Since the female, however, was unavailable for post-laboratory evaluation, data supplied by the male alone was deemed insufficient basis for objective conclusions.
Both subjects were fully clothed and selected at random. Both were in excellent physical and mental health, the male measuring 142.24 centimeters and weighing 33.11 kilograms, the female measuring 134.62 centimeters and weighing 31.20 kilograms. Neither had previous medical histories of male-aggressive/female-passive frotterism, and exhibited no overt tendencies toward neurotically motivated behavior in these areas, though this was not the concern of the experiment and did not enter formally into either laboratory considerations or post-lab evaluations. Similarly, an inquiry into the nature of prepubescent incestuous exploration seemed inappropriate since male and female subjects were not genetically related, although “family ties” could easily have been presumed (with resultant erroneous conclusions) in that female was the younger sister of the recently acquired bride of male’s uncle. For purposes of the experiment, a game of “hide-and-seek” was proposed, in which male subject’s older sibling was declared “It.” While he counted aloud from one to ten, male and female enclosed themselves in the control space, a recess measuring 182.88 by 213.36 centimeters, adjacent to the entrance door of the externally circumscribing space, and normally utilized for the storage of wearing apparel. Male subject’s mother and sister-in-law were in the kitchen eating cakes and honey.
Though insufficient data exists to support this premise, it is reasonable to posit that male’s sibling soon tired of the game, his blind brother being expert at it, and abandoned the externally circumscribing space in favor of the outdoors. Male and female remained hidden in the spontaneously created control space, waiting for the absentee sibling to discover them. By all accounts (the male’s), he was standing directly to the rear of and adjacent to the female. Female, it should be noted, was wearing a thin cotton dress and cotton panties. After fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds of anterior-posterior proximity, male discovered, much to his surprise and amazement, an unaccustomed and totally unexpected engorgement of erectile tissue, producing a state of rigidity normally associated with arousal of the male organ of copulation in higher vertebrates. Simultaneously (and on the basis of unsubstantiated data supplied by male), female demonstrated involuntary skeletal activity of the dorsally located area of juxtaposition, experienced as “wiggling” and “rubbing” motor responses accompanied by seemingly unrelated verbalizations and frequent eruptions of muted laughter. Postulating on the James-Lange Theory, it would appear that sensory fibers in the aroused structures of male and female alike had been activated, causing visceral and skeletal contributions as the impulses passed back to the cortex. What had previously been nonemotional perceptions were augmented by “feelings,” which (as described by the male in post-laboratory discussions) were multi-leveled and altogether discombobulated.
As previously stated, female subject did not contribute data, but when male subject reported to his mother the visceral/skeletal responses and the “feelings” accompanying them, she said, “You didn’t
touch
her, did you?” When subject responded in the negative, she then said, “Your father will tell you all about these things when he gets home.”
Subject’s sibling explained the phenomenon thusly: “Iggie, that was nothing but a Russian hot iron.”
Subject’s father chose not to comment later that night. Or any other night, for that matter.
It had been a sin to develop a hard-on while standing behind Tina, who was after all my Uncle Dominick’s sister-in-law. (I learned to call it a hard-on and not a hot iron at about the same time I learned it was a sin to have one.) It was a sin to throw away bread, according to my mother. She always kissed a crust of stale bread before throwing it into the garbage can. She still does. It was a sin not to eat what was on my plate while people in China were starving. It was a sin to make fun of anybody.
“Then why do they make fun of me in the street,” I asked, “and call me blind names and make believe they pinned something on my back, when they didn’t?”
“What blind names?” she asked.
“They call me Orbo the Kid.”
“What?” my mother asked. “What’s that supposed to mean? Who’s Orbo the Kid?”
“Orbo means blind.”
“Who told you that?”
“Grandpa.”
“What does he know, he’s a greaseball,” my mother said.
“Mama,
orbo
is an Italian word.
Orbo
. It means blind.”
“So what?” she said. “What’s wrong being called Orbo the Kid? It’s like Vinny the Mutt.”
“It’s different,” I said.
“How is it different?”
“Vinny works for Western Union, don’t he? And a guy who delivers telegrams is called a mutt, and
that’s
why he’s Vinny the Mutt.”
“So you’re blind, and
orbo
means blind, and you’re Orbo the Kid. I don’t see any difference at all.”
“You know who picks on me the most?”
“Who?”
“Rocco, who’s crippled.”
“Well,” my mother said.
“You know what
I’m
gonna do? I’m gonna call
him
Gimpy.”
“What for?”
“That means when you limp.”
“No,” my mother said, “don’t do that. That’s a sin, Iggie.”
My brother had started a collection of records he jealously guarded, running over to my grandfather’s house to play them in private on the big wind-up Victrola in the front room. I think if my mother knew Tony took Letitia up there with him every Friday afternoon, she would have considered
that
a sin, too. I kept bothering him to let me hear his records, and finally he told me why he couldn’t.
“Letitia says I shouldn’t let you hear them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because it’s personal.”
“What is?”
“Hearing the records.”
“Well, you let
her
hear the records, don’t you?”
“That’s right, that’s what’s personal.”
“Well, I’m your own brother,” I said.
“That’s right.”
“Blood is thicker than water,” I said, quoting my mother.
“Yeah, but this is different, Igg.”
If truth be known, I was more interested in hearing about all the things Tony and Letitia
did
together than I was in hearing his latest Count Basie single. Tony rarely talked about her anymore, though, and I could only imagine what was going on in my grandfather’s front room each Friday while the curved speaker blared Glen Gray and the Casa Loma. My fantasies were invariably the same. In them, Tony was standing behind Letitia and rubbing up against her while he reached around with both hands and unbuttoned her blouse button by button and then unclasped her brassiere, which I already knew how to do with brassieres that didn’t have girls inside them because I handled a lot of brassieres in my Aunt Bianca’s shop. Since his records were intimately linked with those Friday-afternoon sessions, Tony must have feared that if he let me listen to them I might catch a whiff of early-adolescent musk mixed in with the sound of Duke Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood.”
Or maybe he was afraid I’d disparage the music he loved so much. It occurs to me that this was a real danger at the time. Only once had I asked Passaro to get me the sheet music for a song I’d heard on the radio, during one of Benny Goodman’s Saturday-night broadcasts. The tune was “You Turned the Tables on Me.” Helen Ward sang it, and I’ll never forget it as long as I live, not because it’s a great tune but because of the storm it fomented. Passaro dismissed it as inconsequential, and in fact went so far as to say it was not music at all.
“It makes me sad,” he said, “to think you would even
consider
suggesting to me that I get a piece for you that could be played not only by an organ grinder, but possibly by his monkey as well.”
“Okay, Mr. Passaro,” I said.
“It makes me
more
than sad,” he said. “It
grieves
me, it hurts me
here,
” he said, and realized I couldn’t see what he was doing, and quickly added, “It pains me in my
heart
,” and struck his chest with his closed fist so that I could hear the grieving, painful, hollow thump, “to think that perhaps I’m wrong about you, Ignazio, perhaps you are
not
serious about the piano after all, perhaps you are
not
willing to sacrifice yourself to your destiny.”
“All right, Mr. Passaro,” I said.
“No, it’s
not
all right,” he said, his voice rising. He was pacing, his heels clicking along the parquet floor; I sat at the piano with my hands in my lap, and wished I’d never heard of Benny Goodman. “
Not
all right at
all
, Ignazio! For
what
have we been studying and practicing these past two years,
more
than two years? For
what
? So you can come to me with a request for trash, ask me to procure for you a piece of junk I would not allow in my house except to start a fire in the stove with! Am I a procurer of trash for you, of
junk
, am I a man who would insult my own integrity and be unfaithful to your promise as a musician by allowing you to...”
“All right, all right,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“
More
than sorry is what you must be!” Passaro shouted. “I hear that
junk
, that trash, and it gives me pains in the chest,” he said. “The drums, ba-
dohm
, ba-
dohm
, ba-
dohm
, and the cornets making noise, and the saxophones, ah-waah, waah, waah! Never!” he shouted. “
Giammai!”
reverting to Italian, which he rarely did. “And the piano? Is that how to treat a piano? A
piano
? What is it they
do
with the piano? Is
that
what you wish to do with the piano, Ignazio? Do you wish to tinkle? Then go tinkle in the bathroom, not here, not where we study
music
! Do you want to play in Carnegie Hall, or do you want to play in the Paramount movie house downtown? Decide. Decide now. I have no time to waste with ungrateful people to whom I am devoting
all
of my energy and
all
of my years of musical experience.
Decide
, Ignazio!”
“I already decided,” I said.
“And what is your decision?”
“I want to play in Carnegie Hall.”
“Then never again ask me to...”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“Never.”
“I promise, really.”
“All right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Did you practice this week? Or were you too busy listening to Benny Goodmans?”
“I practiced a lot.”
“How long?”
“Three hours every day.”
“Did you learn the Mozart?”
“Yes, Mr. Passaro.”
“All
ten
variations?”
“Yes, Mr. Passaro.”
“Clean? Or sloppy as usual?”
“Clean,” I said.
“Play them.”
The swing bands were, of course, as binding an ingredient in the mortar of the myth as were the radio and the movies and the comic strips and the jive talk already filtering its way into the streets (“That’s
icky
, Iggie”), all of them reinforcing the sense of unity of a nation that was coping with the more serious business of pulling itself slowly out of the pit. I might have been as captured by the new sound as my brother Tony, had it not been for Passaro. Nor am I talking about his aversion to swing. Any classical musician might have been put off by swing. I am talking about an idea he implanted in my head, an idea intricately bound up with a myth entirely alien to him, and in keeping with everything I believed to be American.
Passaro thought I was a musical genius.
It’s a common feeling for blind musicians to believe they’re more talented than musicians who can see, but when this fallacy is reinforced by a teacher who’s beginning to believe you’re Busoni reincarnated, and telling your mother you’re going to burst upon the performing world in ten years (make it eight, make it
six
!) with such dynamic force that the reverberations will be felt and heard all over the world; and when you couple this with the only proposition in the American Dream that is
still
valid (but only if you’re free, white, and thirty-five), phrased for simplicity’s sake as “
Anyone
can become President of these United States!” — why, man, you have
got
to begin believing you are something special.
I was something special.
Me.
Ignazio Silvio Di Palermo.
I was already into stuff like Bact’s French and English Suites (not
all
the movements, but
some
of them), and his two-part inventions, and able to analyze them harmonically as I played them. I knew every chord on that keyboard (or thought I did until I began playing jazz), knew their primary, secondary, and tertiary functions, knew their patterns of progression and their categories of motion, knew modulation and transposition, and was improvising my own little tunes, upon which I was already writing variations. I was playing movements from Beethoven sonatas while working simultaneously on Chopin’s Opus 72, Number 1 in E Minor, and I was pounding my Czerny and my Hanon like crazy, and I was going to prove that in America all men are created equal, and even the blind grandson of a poor but humble tailor could rise to spectacular heights and achieve fame and fortune if only I ate my Wheaties and faithfully decoded Little Orphan Annie’s messages, and didn’t rub up against plump little girls in coat closets, which was a sin, and didn’t say “nigger” or “Jew,” which was un-American and probably also a sin, and practiced the piano hard, and stopped bringing Passaro requests for trash and junk, and just stuck to being what I was and what I was destined to become — a goddamn musical
genius
!